


The Other's Each

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e09 Miller's Crossing, Episode: s04e15 Outcast, Family, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was aware that he stood awkwardly in the middle of someone else’s living room, cast in beleaguered grays, a remnant from another place and time. Madison was a sharp contrast, standing in the doorway leading towards the kitchen, thumb-prints smudged on clean white paint. She thrummed with life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other's Each

“John.” Kaleb didn’t look surprised to see him. Well, that made one of them. 

“Hi. Uh, I’m sorry to bother you, I’ll just—” The door yawned wider, exposing a warm, cheery glow that clung to his skin in all the wrong ways. He had no idea why he was here.

“Come on in,” Kaleb said.

John went inside.

It was just as bewilderingly wholesome as last time. John didn’t have too many memories of the Miller’s home— _crystal clear snapshots, etched in worry, gilded with tactical assessment (they’d come through_ there _, dragged her back through_ here _), blurring the mundane awareness into military necessity overlaying the dammit, dammit, dammit_ —but he did remember that. There was no fireplace, but somehow there was the same kind of comforting welcome, strong enough that he could almost hear the flames cracking a muted tune: children’s toys stacked neatly against the far wall, the furniture plush and worn and lived in, voices chattering happily in the kitchen. Rockwellian.

Overwhelming.

He shouldn’t have come here. Of course, it would help if he remembered actually boarding the plane. Buying a ticket. Ducking past shadowy figures with their shadowy aura of _guard_ , the kind that lay thick and cloying over any SGC personnel.

“Daddy,” a high, breathy voice called, “who was at the—oh.”

John was aware that he stood awkwardly in the middle of someone else’s living room, cast in beleaguered grays, a remnant from another place and time. Madison was a sharp contrast, standing in the doorway leading towards the kitchen, thumb-prints smudged on clean white paint. She thrummed with life. No, she _glowed_ with it, the kind of untempered happiness and contentment that only children could ever find.

If they were lucky.

“Madison, this is Uncle Rodney’s friend,” Kaleb said behind him. They were strung out through the room like untouchable islands. “Colonel John Sheppard. Do you remember him?”

She watched him unblinking. Unafraid. “Uh huh.”

He shouldn’t have come here.

Time blurred, just a little. He knew, the way someone tells you after you woke up bruised and bloody, that she’d tugged his pant leg, lifting her arms in universal request. He didn’t _remember_ it, though. The knowledge was already imprinted in his mind.

The way Madison was imprinting herself around him.

No five year old should be able to grip arms and legs that tightly and, hysterically, John thought about suggesting wrestling for her future. She was certainly taking him down. Madison sighed against his neck, cheek cool and terrifying soft against the roughness of aged skin and the collar—stiff and full of starch—of his shirt that she’d pushed away without thought.

He could feel her heart beating, slower than his own but still quick, quick, quick, the way her chest expanded in a rush of air that was exhaled through cookie-crumb lips. “Hi, Uncle John,” she said, and wound herself tighter.

John closed his eyes against the sight of Jeannie, curled into her husband’s arms while Kaleb spoke to her, quietly. It wasn’t for him. Instead, he stumbled backwards into a couch that swallowed him up when he sat, just like before, embracing the parts Madison was too little to reach herself. “Hi,” he said, and leaned against the crown of her head. “Mind if I visit for a while?”

“I missed you,” she said, which was Miller for _yes_. 

* * *

“Here. It’s tea,” Jeannie said, sliding over a peach-colored mug. “Herbal, and no, you don’t get to mock my hospitality.” 

She was wearing one of those ubiquitous tank-tops she favored, powder blue and distracting. She looked so _womanly_ , all soft, inviting curves that a man could get lost in. Work with the military—Washington—all the endless parties—long enough and it was easy to forget women came in options other than too thin and too hard.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The tea tasted like flowers. “Rodney’s the—the one who lives on coffee.”

“He started drinking it when he was seven,” she agreed. “How it didn’t stunt his growth ... Anyway, it’s kind of nice to know that still holds true. It means I never need to think about what to get him for his birthday, or Christmas.”

“And it doesn’t matter how much he has. He always wants more.”

“Renewable,” she said, lifting up her own apple-shaped mug for a toast. “Unchanging, no matter what else happens.”

“It is.” It was. No matter how much John or anybody else screwed up, give Rodney coffee and all was forgiven. At least until next time.

“He emailed, you know,” Jeannie said to the table. “A couple times.”

“You guys talk,” John shrugged, throat closing. There were more words somewhere, churning uneasily in his stomach and at the base of his throat. He ignored it through long practice. 

The third sip of tea was still too sweet, but it went smoothly over his tongue, warming everywhere it touched.

Jeannie shook her head impatiently. “No, not that. That’s just normal stuff,” she dismissed, hand waving with eerie familiarity. It didn’t disguise the way her mouth curved into a smile: over a year, now, and still it surprised her that Rodney always emailed back. “This was about you. That maybe you might show up here. Unexpectedly.” Her eyes were greyer than Rodney’s, but still so blue. Still sober and forthright and so focused that it was impossible to look away. “And that I should probably expect it. I mean, why else would the guest room be warm? I know Rodney told you that it’s freezing if I don’t open the door long enough in advance.”

The guest bed currently held Madison, lulled to sleep with stories about princesses who rescued themselves. John’s throat burned, like heart burn of the most literal kind; he could still taste the words he’d so painstakingly read. “Is she serious about sleeping with me?”

“Don’t perv on my daughter and yes, she is. Madison’s got something of a talent at this,” Jeannie said, this smile fond and just a little smug.

John wondered if he was going to catalog Jeannie’s smiles, the way he was already cataloging her brother’s frowns. “She’s got a talent for waylaying older guys and bullying them into sleeping with her? Remind me to tell you about Harmony.”

“Actually,” Jeannie said, archly, even while glaring at him for such obvious bait, “you’re the oldest of Madison’s conquests. I think you’ll get the most out of it, though.”

Madison hadn’t let more than four feet between them from the moment he’d arrived to the moment she’d finally fallen asleep. Even her nightly trip to the bathroom—no bath, a hastily summoned tribunal declared—had been with firm orders that Uncle John should stay _right outside_ until she was done.

Suppressing a joke about mothers and pimps—it would make Jeanie laugh, he was sure, but that didn’t mean he was brave enough to say it—John finished the rest of his tea. His head swam pleasantly after the final swallow, feather-pillows and cotton-heavy sunlight expanding warmly within him.

It took him another thirty seconds to realize it wasn’t just exhaustion—aching, and _old_ , weariness that grew over his skin like a mask; he hadn’t slept well, in his father’s house—but something more. He jerked his eyes up, accusing, even though he couldn’t find the words. His tongue felt numb.

“It’s not drugged, if that’s what you’re about to ask,” Jeannie said casually. “I know better than to do that. But it is something that’ll help you sleep. John.” She didn’t touch him—no one had but Madison, not since Nancy’s final, futile hug—but her fingers twitched with wanting; McKays were surprisingly tactile. “John, he mentioned why you came back to Earth.”

Oh. Well, then. That was nice of Rodney. 

“Wasn’t his story to tell.” John’s voice croaked.

Jeanie’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing: she’d understood that just fine and John was going to have to remember. It’d taken Rodney years to learn his cues, but it seemed his sister had picked up on all of them after just a few meetings. Some kind of fraternal osmosis, and that, too, was another punch to the gut. Fraternal. Try, and try, and still he didn’t know what that word meant. Not for him or Dave, anyway.

“Hey,” Jeanie said, leaning forward for emphasis. “He didn’t do that. You have to know he wouldn’t do that. He just ... He just thought you might like a place to stay for a while. That’s all.”

Bright colors, vibrant slices of life that John could barely remember, taunted him at the edges of his vision. How _had_ he ended up here? He still didn’t know, no matter how the stark, black lettering had confirmed it was his card that’d bought the ticket. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Yes,” Jeannie said, so intense that John actually looked at her: full on _looked_. This wasn’t the same woman who’d guilted Rodney into a car, not so many weeks ago. There were dark bruises under her eyes. “ _Yes_ , you should have. There really wasn’t a story, okay? At least, not yours. All he said was that your father died and that your family kind of sucked and then he started babbling, the way Mer always does, when he’s worried and doesn’t know what to do, and hey, would I mind being volunteered as a better family, if you did happen to come by?”

The burn at the base of his throat expanded, immersing him whole. John swallowed a few times, unsure if the problem was that Rodney had known something about him that John hadn’t, or that Jeanie had picked up on it so effortlessly. Either way, it implied a level of understanding John had run from his who life. He hated people who read him so easily, twisting into his mind like worms.

And, for once, John was so damned grateful for it that he couldn’t even comprehend the magnitude, sitting in Jeanie’s kitchen feeling limp and breathless with something he didn’t know how to name.

“I told him I’d be happy to,” she continued quietly. “I mean it, John. I’m glad you’re here. With or without warning. Now, come on. It’s late, and you’re exhausted, and I bet you haven’t slept in ages and I’ve got a really good mattress upstairs, since Mer went out and bought it the last time he stayed.”

She prattled as she pulled him along, deftly weaving them past the obstacles of three people straining the seams of a house not quite big enough. It was a familiar level of noise, for all it was pitched at alto instead of the tenor he expected, rising and falling to patterns that made his mind go numb, his body completely docile as he climbed the stairs after her.

He felt like a child again, overtired and cranky and unable to focus properly. It was _probably_ due to the tea, blunting the edges of his awareness with the weight of sleep kept at bay for far too long. He knew, stumbling over a pile of books, that he should _probably_ be mad at her for drugging him, too. Since it was drugging, no matter her excuses of ‘just tea’. John knew what ‘just tea’ often turned into.

But he wasn’t mad. He couldn’t find anything in him except gratitude for the way her fingers wound tight around his wrist, guiding with subtle pressures he reacted to without thinking, the slightest touch of reins long coded into him. She was solid, like Rodney— _strong_ , strong enough to carry all his weight and more on her shoulders—and full of that transparent type of manipulation: part guilt, part affection, and all woman. All _mothering_.

So different from the demons John still ran from, buttons installed with hard, brittle edges that cut into him, leaving him unwilling to be a pawn in a war he hadn’t volunteered for.

Dressed in a pair of Rodney’s old sweats, a t-shirt that was so soft it clung to him despite billowing too big when he tugged it, John climbed under the covers Jeannie pulled back, opening his arms to a sleepy Madison that didn’t care that he was starting to shiver. Or that he held her too tightly. 

She just snuggled closer, sighing against his shoulder.

“G’night, Uncle John,” she slurred, awake enough only to welcome him.

Jeanie sat on the edge of the bed, staying until the tremors eased. It should’ve felt awkward, a darkened vulture watching his every move like so many had before. But there was no expectation, no harried professionalism, no menace, no—most hated—reluctant tenderness that John could discern. She just wanted to make sure he slept. 

The way Teyla would, wandered through his mind. The way _he_ would, for Teyla’s coming child.

“He told me, you know,” Jeannie whispered, right when dreams of big, blue eyes promised to swallow him whole, hands swooping like gulls gusting leaves through his emptying thoughts, “about what he tried to do. About what you did, instead. I think he told me because he was afraid you would.”

John didn’t want to hear this. He closed his eyes, trapped by sleep that hadn’t yet caught him in its net, a promise weighted down with Madison’s steady breathing.

“I don’t know my brother anymore, not really. I don’t know how to forgive him, or how to interact with him. There’s too much there and I forget, I really forget, that he’s not Meredith anymore, that he’s _Rodney_. I don’t know Rodney,” Rodney’s sister said. “But whoever he is, I know how much he cares for you, John. And I know how easy it’s been for _me_ to like you, too. So I hope this helps, because I’m glad I can do this for my brother, but most of all, I want to do it for _you_ , John. You are always welcome here.”

When the door finally shut, the darkness was almost complete. John curled around Madison, instinctively shifting so not to smother her, silk-spun dreams of Dave already vanishing against the steady, unwavering rhythm of a little girl, fast asleep.

* * *

Dreams finally chased him awake. John blinked, rubbing his face until his palms burned and his skin felt slack with age. He had vague memories of Madison waking before him—whispering something sweet before her mother came and quietly bargained her daughter out of bed without John to accompany her. It had to be hours ago: the clock read a blurry half-past eleven.

A thick, luxurious green robe lay over the desk chair in obvious invitation. John stared at it, wondering who it belonged to and how long someone had worn it to give it that faded, ethereal look. He put it on, though. He didn’t have any fight left in him.

The stillness of the house felt unnatural as he stumbled downstairs, flat and lifeless. He started rubbing his still-bare feet where he knew the stairs would squeak, floor boards creaking their displeasure just for his own peace of mind. Silence was useful only when he knew where all the edges were, all the hidden knives blunted. He didn’t know anything about this place.

Just that it was Rodney’s. Sort of. And that maybe, just maybe, it would be different.

“Morning.” Kaleb’s tumble of curls appeared from within the kitchen before his face did, inviting him with a jerk of a chin. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Breakfast for two?” John asked, trying not to feel awkward. He should've worn socks. Maybe green socks.

Kaleb had a ruddy, earthy laugh. “Nope, Just one.” 

A red-checkered cloth was removed from a bowl, exposing a gelatinous goop that John tried not to look at all that closely. It was only after it started sizzling on the stove, familiar smells drifting around him, as tangible as a Warner Brother’s cartoon, that he finally identified it as pancakes. Real, slowly-turning-golden and fluffy, _pancakes_. 

“I fed the girls hours ago,” Kaleb continued as he spooned and flipped. “Jeannie’s out shopping and she convinced Madison that you might want to shower and get dressed by yourself.”

“Thanks.” John worked not to choke on the word; a sudden draft had him close to shivering, and he didn’t want to ascribe that feeling to a missing little girl who was no part of his life.

Kaleb looked like a stork, all long bones and gangly, knobby joints, but his movements were fluid and graceful as he danced around the small kitchen. A self-conducted orchestra of one. “They’ll be back in two hours, maybe less if Madison has her way. She seems to think you’ll vanish if she’s away for too long." And wasn't it odd, that every woman in John's life had thought that, too? "Juice or coffee?”

“Ah—”

“Both it is.” Two glasses—the clear one shaped like a pineapple, along with the peach mug from last night, leaving John to wonder if the Millers owned _any_ glass not shaped like a fruit—were pushed across the table with a squeak. “Try the juice first.”

John stared, aware that his hands were abruptly fisted, knuckles creaking with strain. “That’s orange juice.” He hadn’t had orange juice in… in he couldn’t remember how long. Partly because fresh oranges, like most Earth fruit, were still hard to come by on Atlantis.

But mostly, it was due to treating simple, sweet juice like it was a live-wire, a grenade with the pin pulled free, sitting innocently on a kitchen table. John glared accusingly at Kaleb's back, wondering why he felt betrayed.

Another pancake sizzled into the world. “Mango.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the glass. “What?”

“It’s mango juice,” Kaleb explained. He didn’t seem at all surprised at John’s reticence. “Just mango. Drink it, you need to wake your body up slowly.”

So, Kaleb was an English major and a health-food nut. Clearly, Rodney was right about the awfulness of Jeannie’s husband. Still, the sweet, mild juice did clear his head from cobwebs he hadn’t even noticed. He was eying the orange slush at the bottom when Kaleb loomed into his vision, refilling the glass unasked.

“You need the calories. I know your type, you stop eating when things are problematic.”

John made a face. He felt a little more awake, now. “Has Rodney been talking to you about my ‘manorexia’?”

“‘Manorexia’? Never mind, I think I’m happier not knowing. And no, I don’t talk to Rodney,” Kaleb said in an odd voice. A half-dozen fluffy pancakes slid onto a plate before the whole thing clattered onto the table. “I make a point of that.”

Long ago, John had railed against this, frustrated that silence always seemed to invite conversations he didn't want—except he felt no tension along his shoulders, no desperate need to change the topic. Instead, he concentrated on growing maple-syrup oceans around his pancakes. "Oh?"

Kaleb sat down gratefully. “I stopped talking to Rodney before the wedding, actually. It was easy to make everything Rodney’s fault."

"Probably because a lot of it was."

"Well, yeah, but—but that isn’t really true. Some of it’s Jeanie’s. A lot more of it’s mine.”

Each bite was a mouthful of heaven. “Well, he almost always calls you ‘the English major’,” John said, clearing his throat and heading for the coffee. If he was doing this—why, _why_ was he?—then he needed caffeine. “That’s not exactly standard, even for normal in-law relationships.”

“You?”

“Two sisters and a brother-in-law, yeah.” And all of them had hated John on sight, just as driven and ambitious as Nancy: they’d seen slacker written in the wrinkles of his shirt. “We hadn’t even gone on our honeymoon before they started circling.”

“The first time I met Rodney, he walked right past me. Didn’t say hello, nice to meet you, just started talking about some theory he was working on, or his new job that he couldn’t talk about, except that he was doing incredible things and making more money than a poor English major ever would, hinting at stuff I couldn’t make heads or tails about.”

It didn’t matter that this was years ago and not about him at all: John still winced. “Yeah. Rodney’s good at that.”

“Yeah, but that’s not really the point. It wasn’t what Rodney did. It was _Jeanie_.” Kaleb had the look of a man bearing his soul, and glad of it. “Jeanie’s smart. I mean, scary-smart, like her brother, and the two of them together were impossible. All the bickering and teasing, about things I could never understand. I couldn't keep up when it was just us, talking about her classes. When Rodney came by? It was like I didn't even exist. So when Jeanie decided to drop out of school and Rodney washed his hands, I helped. It wasn't hard.”

Of course it wasn't. Rodney rampaged through the labs exactly like that, burning bridges as he ignored everyone around him no matter how important they were.

Except for John, though. For him, Rodney always had time.

“Look," he started, "Rodney isn’t—”

“Do you make excuses for him a lot?”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“That’s what you were going to do, right? Make excuses for him?” There was none of the expected snap, crackle or pop in his voice. Kaleb wasn’t angry, just curious. Calm. “You don’t need to. I figured it out, Colonel. Rodney's a good man—a better one that me. After all, he never blamed _me_ for Jeanie wanting a different kind of life. I was just an accessory.”

“Come one,” John said, moved to defend. “Your wife had just been kidnapped. You had people swarming your house and scaring your kid.” Madison, her little face quiet and solemn as she handed him crayons one by one, drawing the only comfort she could find. “You didn’t know what’s going on, and you were scared. It’s completely understandable.”

“Sure it was,” Kaleb agreed. “Except it was wrong. _I_ was wrong. And I think the great Rodney McKay, who is always right no matter what, will never believe that. I owe him for the rest of my life, Colonel.”

“John.” The last bite of pancake went down slowly, caught on something suddenly tight and aching in the back of his throat. Swallowing felt good. “Call me John.”

Nancy’s family had always called him by his rank.

And just like that, it was over. Confession given and Kaleb was busy cleaning up, charming as he offered, “Want some more pancakes? I’ve got a little batter left.”

“Nah, thanks. I was thinking about going on a run and anymore of those, and you’d have to roll me down the street.”

“Jeanie mentioned you might. There’s a park about a mile away, she left you directions up in your room. Don't worry about all that stuff," he added, curtailing John's hap-hazard assistance. "I've got it. Go on.”

John waited for the _you’re the guest_ , the words ringing from too many memories. It didn’t come. Kaleb wasn’t sparing him, wasn’t pushing him away from labor he didn’t feel John was up to handling.

Kaleb just liked cleaning up, already humming a harmony to the faucet’s gurgling, hands deft and sure as everything began to sparkle.

Bemused, John followed Jeanie’s neat, precise directions past houses that rang with laughter and shouts, early greeters to a late fall day. There was so much life around him, so different from Atlantis’ often cool majesty. It was close to winter, though, his breath starting to fog as he turned into a small park lined with trees still bristling with defiant greenery. After so many days surrounded by people, it felt good to be alone and he ran faster, forcing the blood to rush past his ears, sweat slicking skin until it felt normal again, felt like _his_ again.

Going back home—no, not home. Going back to what was now Dave’s house always felt like drifting up through clouds, wrapping himself in grey that shrunk him below his father’s too-level gaze, kept him cold against the heat of Dave’s constantly envious glare. What he was envious of always changed. It’d been Nancy, once upon a time, but John didn’t think that lasted beyond their first year together. It was obvious to the sun above how bad they were together.

It was other things, though, too. John had never been able to pin down the specifics, not after he’d returned with a red palm-print to herald the news. The business, probably, but that made no sense—Dave had _wanted_ it, fighting for it even after John gift-wrapped it for him and laid it on a platter. Whatever it had been, now it was just another reason to make John’s legs pump harder, to run a little further, fly a little higher, drifting past continent after continent, so long as it wasn’t one that contained another Sheppard.

He was panting with exertion by the time he made his way back to the Miller’s, drenched with sweat as he jogged in place in front of the door. Madison opened the door, a tiny blond copy of her uncle as she said, “Ew, Uncle John, you smell icky. Go shower.” 

A lazy salute made her giggle, and saying, “Yes, ma’am,” made her preen.

Dressed in clean clothes that didn’t reek of calla lilies, John found himself firmly ensconced on the sofa, Madison reigning over the entire house from her perch in his lap. They played with Lego’s, building up complicated structures that had John worrying about potential a-bombs in her future, sharing looks with a long-suffering, and sufficiently nervous, Jeanie. Around them, the Millers tended to their lives, cleaning and chatting away quietly, allowing John to lose himself in the precise way blue and white and yellow and red melted into skyscrapers, into bridges and whatever else the two of them could dream up.

When Kaleb hauled out a pre-fab bookcase still disassembled, John paused and offered assistance. Kaleb held a screwdriver the way Rodney had first held a gun. “I’m pretty handy at putting things together.”

“Oh, no,” Jeanie answered hastily. “Kaleb likes doing manly, useful things around the house. Or at least, I like Kaleb to do those things,” which made more sense, given Kaleb’s long-suffering expression, “because he looks so very pretty doing them. And it might be time for an other-bray.”

Her impish grin was meant to share, warm good humor on a lazy Saturday afternoon, but it made John hesitate. That wasn’t the kind of information you offered a stranger there by the grace of shared acquaintances. That was the kind of thing told only to good friends.

Or family.

“Uncle John? Do you have a brother like Mummy does?”

“Madison!” Jeanie chastised while from the floor, Kaleb just chuckled, feet wiggling back and forth. “You know she understands pig-latin. I think we’re gonna have to learn another language.”

“Oh, please, like she didn’t learn how to spell when she was _two_ just to spite us.”

Madison was still looking up at John, ignoring her parents’ by-play, doe-eyed and expectant. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” John rasped. “I have a brother.”

“Do you like him?”

“I think he doesn’t like me.” The words popped out before he could translate _none of your business_ into something a five year old would understand.

“Like how sometimes Mommy doesn’t like Uncle Rodney?”

John heard Jeanie’s gasp, but ignored it; this wasn’t about her. “No,” he said firmly, the answer appearing without any thought necessary. “Not like that at all.”

“Not even when Mommy wasn’t talking to Uncle Rodney at all, and she said that I’d probably have to _die_ before he’d remember we existed?”

“Madison!” Both parents got into the act this time, staring down with shocked embarrassment. “John, I’m sorry, she—”

“No, it’s okay.” This answer was easy, too. No matter how insufferable Rodney had acted, he’d always loved his sister, always wanting what he thought was best for her. It was just that sometimes Rodney was like a windup toy, constantly going forward because that was the only way he knew, battering against a wall until his motor ran down and he just _stopped_. “No, Madison, not even like that. Your Uncle always remembered you and your mom. He loves you guys.”

Madison’s lower lip was pink and classifiable as a deadly weapon. So tiny, blood and bone and quick-quick breath, puddled in his lap without a single reservation. “But he didn’t talk to us.”

“Well, for a really long time he couldn’t.”

“He didn’t remember how to talk?” Madison’s frown made that seem doubtful. “But Uncle Rodney _always_ talks.”

“Actually,” Kaleb answered, while Jeanie turned a snort into a cough, “I think that’s right, sweetheart. I think Uncle Rodney forgot how to talk to us.”

“But he remembers now?” she demanded, twisting to beseech both father and uncle with wide, anxious eyes, certain that their answer would make the world right again. “He remembers how to talk to us and not forget us?”

So trusting. John couldn’t get enough of it, suddenly wondering if Teyla’s son would be just like this. Would it be John who kissed knees and promised that only the real monsters were a threat, and John would stop those, too, would do anything to make sure he stayed safe?

There’d been a break-in when John was just barely old enough to remember, no more than six or seven. He could still remember running into Davey’s room, heart thundering in his ears, a baseball bat clutched in slippery hands because his father had sent him there. The older John understood that he’d been sent out of the way, to the protected middle of the house where the security systems were strongest.

But John could still remember crouching against Davey’s bed, careful not to wake him, listening as hard as he could, _certain_ that he needed to bash and yell and do anything he could to make sure Davey stayed safe. There was no one else, not right then, it was just John and John’s fortitude.

His mother had told stories of them prying the baseball bat out of his hands until her death.

Dave had always worn a dour look on his face at the retellings, too. The memory popped unbidden into John’s mind, Dave of varying years and heights with that same look of frustrated, bitter jealousy, souring features that had always garnered more praise.

Rodney had never been able to find the words. 

Neither he nor Dave had even looked for them.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” John said, the word for once coming smooth and easy. “He remembers how to talk to you and your parents, now. And I won’t let him forget again.”

* * *

By the third day, John was cooking dinner. He didn’t have to, of course. Jeanie in particular was quite insistent when she told him that. Frequently. Cooking had never been one of his impulses, but the way the Miller home had opened up the blanket, snuggling it tight around his shoulders without even a hitch of confusion made him feel oddly domestic. For once, it wasn’t guilt that drove him to fumble with a brick of mozzarella, the clammy white cheese sticking to his fingers as he tried to cut it small enough. It was _passion_.

“You look surprisingly comfortable in a kitchen,” Jeanie said.

John flashed her a grin. It was easy to do that now—well. It was _easier_ to do that. Jeanie was a lot like her daughter: all she wanted was John’s presence and his happiness. Everything else was irrelevant. “No idea why.”

“Well, it’s certainly not your mad skillz.” There was special emphasis on the _z_ -sound at the end, even as she darted forward to rescue a wood spoon left a little too close to an open flame.

“Ah, right. Sorry about that, I—”

Laughter rang out like wing-beats, soaring up into endless sky. “John, please. I know my husband has told you about my _own_ mad skillz in the kitchen.”

There was a hint of something more than the confession of a young mother’s inability to cook. John concentrated on halving the cherry tomatoes and not cutting his fingers off. “Kaleb’s a good cook.”

Yesterday it’d been vegetarian lasagna. John was pretty sure it was the reason he’d woken up grinning.

“He is, and he likes to cook, too, which was a huge relief when we started dating. My parents weren’t big on domestic responsibilities, growing up. I think we all spent more time in labs then we did in kitchens. There was always something else to learn, some other paper my parents wanted to work on, or study.” She shrugged. “I learned how to fix cold things, and of course I know of the god-like powers of the microwave, but that’s about it.”

“Man can survive on sandwiches alone,” he said, intentionally pompous. “I’m living proof, since I think I got through graduate school on hoagies.” Little stories, things he’d never told anyone else, had started peppering his conversation. He’d decided not to be bothered by it.

“I bet. Well, man may be able to, but woman needs a little bit more variety in her life, thanks.” Jeanie washed her hands and picked up the peeler John had abandoned in dismay, scraping carrots clean. The sound of it _whisk, whisk, whisked_ through the house, reminiscent of other, not so pleasant things. Hopefully, this memory would drown the rest out.

He couldn’t help but watch as she worked beside him. Her fingers were thick, for a woman’s. Not really graceful so much as capable, skilled and steady and _strong_ , lots of ‘s’ words that John normally associated with Rodney. It was still bizarre when John noticed them about his sister.

“You should probably just say it,” he said, adding pasta to boiling water. No McKay on any planet could let something go without a fight, and after several days here, John had grown used to the rhythms they used. There was nothing hidden here, no undercurrents that threatened to drown him. For once, John wanted to hear whatever it was that had driven Jeanie to the kitchen, silently watching him destroy her kitchen.

And maybe, this time, John wanted to say it, too.

Eventually, Jeanie put down the peeler and hopped onto the counter, legs swinging like a child’s. “I said some things to him. Mer. The last time he was here. About how he should live his life and what kind of brother he was, which hey, look at the irony.”

Not once had Jeanie or Kaleb talked about John’s family, or the reason for him being there. Just Rodney. “Yeah, I know. He told what you said, eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“Look, I don’t really know what kind of relationship you think McKay and I have, but—”

“I think you’re his friend,” she interrupted. “I think he’s your friend. I think you both trust each other and care about each other, and I don’t want or need to know any more than that.”

“Right. Well. That’s good. Because there isn’t.” Basil leaves were layered one over the other, the clean, herbal scent of them rising as he began to cut. He couldn’t figure out why he felt defensive. She wasn’t the first to question why he spent so much time with McKay. “So, when you said ‘eventually’ that way ... ”

“I was unhappy that it was ‘eventually’. That he didn’t tell you earlier. Mostly because when Rodney’s only a little hurt, he’ll tell the whole world about it over and over until people want to smack him. But if he’s really hurt—”

When he was really hurt, Rodney defied everyone’s assumptions and told no one at all. “Yeah. I know.” Pursing his lips together, John shut his eyes and mentally flipped a coin. Tails. Dammit; he knew better than to use a mental coin. They were always rigged. He’d known that whispers cast into the night wouldn’t be enough. Not for a McKay, who dealt in absolutes, definable answers they held in their hands. Jeanie wasn’t all that different from her brother.

“He, ah. He was really upset.”

“You were angry about it,” Jeanie observed. “No, you’re _still_ angry, and not just because of—of what you had to do. You’re mad at me.”

“He would’ve died for you,” he said, voice suddenly scratchy and low despite his efforts to sound normal. It was too easy to get lost in the memory: like falling into a well, drowning on pure oxygen while his mind echoed with Rodney’s simple, emotionless words. “He didn’t even _think_ about it. He just—he just went up to me and told me he’d made a decision and he was going to _die_ for you. You were more important than anything else, even his damned Nobel. He’d do anything for you.”

“Like put me over you?” She smiled when he jerked his head up to meet her gaze. “Don’t look so surprised, John. You’re the most important person in his whole life, probably ever, and I know you know that. To have him tell you that he was—” Her eyes were damp when she finally looked away, releasing him. “It must’ve been awful for you.”

“It wasn’t—it wasn’t about me.” No, it’d been about Jeanie, about Wallace so torn with grief that he’d been willing to destroy the world to get what he wanted and Rodney had only wanted to destroy _his_ world. “You were—”

“Asking the impossible of him.” Her voice was so gentle. “All those years when I thought he didn’t care, when I hated him for running away, and he was _there_ , John. He was finally there, and I didn’t have to ask him to come. I just asked him to _choose_.”

Choose what? Between his family and his ego? “You were unconscious at the time. You didn’t ask him to do anything.”

“I _asked him to choose_ ,” she repeated, as simple and forthright as Rodney had been, “and then when I woke up I told him it wasn’t good enough. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know. I still shouldn’t’ve—I should’ve trusted that no matter how much of an asshole he is, he really does love me. And do you know what surprised me most of all, about this?”

No, John wanted to say. No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.

But Jeanie didn’t hear that, still swinging her legs as she pulled a final thread. “It wasn’t that Mer asked. He’s gotten a lot better than that, and he’s always—always trusted me with the important stuff. I was surprised you _came_ , John,” she stressed, voice cracking. “I was surprised you trusted me, after I almost took him away forever.”

She didn’t say _took him away from_ you _forever_. She didn’t need to. John still heard it.

And remembered.

“That’s why I came,” he said, soft enough that she might not even hear. “Because he loves you. He _would_ do anything for you, and not just because of. Of obligation.”

He’d sat there in the stiff, hard chairs his father had always preferred, listening to Dave _try_ , really try, reaching out to him across years of misunderstandings and differences that went down to the bone. Thought _what am I doing here_ and _there’s got to be something better_ , because it wasn’t home, or family. It was just a place, just people he’d never cared about beyond the blood they shared and even then...

Even then, it wasn’t enough.

Because John had found family, finally, in the hard curve of bone, protected with soft skin that would always smell of musk and incense, as Teyla pressed her forehead against his own; the backslaps Ronon doled out like rewards to his chosen few, that left John stunned and reeling, fully aware of his own age and grinning even as he struggled for breath. He’d found it in the rise and fall of wind filling Atlantis’ halls, the music that was probably in his own mind, but linked nonetheless, an aria that would always mean _here, here it is right_. He’d found it in the joy of fighting for something he _believed_ in, something worth every breath he had to spend, suddenly one amongst a crowd as people rallied around him, just as fervent, just as focused. 

It was why he’d run to the Air Force so long ago, craving brothers and sisters who _wanted_ him, bound by choice since blood hadn’t been sufficient. It had been close, too, so close, and for years he’d tricked himself into believing it, fighting for it, drifting along on almosts and not quites.

He’d found family—home—in Rodney Mckay. Because it _had_ been John on that bed so many times, Rodney swooping in at the last second, racing beyond speeding bullets to get to the answer first. Rodney, who donned the clothes of a coward that glowed red and blue, who squared his shoulders at the last second and just _was_ , no matter how tightly he gripped with sweaty hands, fingerprints burning past skin to lodge on bone, indelible and forever.

Listening to Dave obsequiously dance around things John hadn’t given a damn about had been like stepping inside the thunderous clap of a cymbal. It had been _wrong_ , profound and undeniable. There was nothing but green left between them, the ink and pulp that ran through Dave’s veins, and if that was a Sheppard, then John wanted nothing to do with it.

That would never be family.

John remembered, now, leaving sweat-marks on Dave’s keyboard when he bought the ticket. He remembered ghosting through crowded airports and unending lines, ignoring everything but the need to get away.

He’d never once thought to call in advance, never questioning his welcome.

There’d been no need.

“Mummy,” a small voice piped up, aggrieved beyond her years. “Mummy did you break Uncle John?”

“Um. I think I might have.” Jeanie’s voice trembled just a little but when he looked at her—he was sitting, when had he sat down?—her smile was true. “Are you okay?”

Tiny hands scaled the heights of his knees, Madison curling into his lap without fear of dismissal. She blinked up at him, patting his face to make sure he looked at her. “Uncle John?”

“I think the pasta’s done,” he said, inanely. The stove hissed as water angrily overflowed. It’d probably been done for a while, since he’d forgotten to set the timer.

Madison clearly hadn’t expected that, but she nodded. “Do you want me to pour it out?”

She would, too. It didn’t matter that the pot merrily bubbling away would scald her hands, and overbalance her tiny frame, even _if_ she were tall enough to reach the stove it sat on. If he wanted her, she would do it: there was no building tall enough to prevent her mighty leap.

“You are just like your uncle,” John whispered to her. For the first time, John took her into his arms with conscious intent, actively reaching for what she gave—had given—with all the strength her body held. John kissed her ear, just because he could, smiling when she giggled. “Just like him.”

“Okay,” she agreed, gamely. Then, “Mommy? Is that a good thing?”

John burst into laughter, met and matched by Jeanie’s only slightly-hysterical merriment. “Yeah, sweetheart,” she said, leaning down to kiss first her daughter’s hair, then John’s. “Yeah, it is.”

* * *

It was well into night when the ’gate swirled to a close at his heels. John gave a lazy nod to the night-staff above him. He didn’t want to deal with ‘welcome back, sir’ or reports of what’d gone wrong in his absence. He was a man on a mission, now, and wouldn’t be deterred.

Mostly because if he chickened out now he’d never get the courage back up.

And, more importantly, Jeanie would know. It wouldn’t matter how John tried to hide it, dismissing it with the ease of long practice: she’d _know._

Still. “Sergeant?”

“Eleven o’clock and all’s well,” the sergeant on duty reported. “I’ll inform Colonel Carter of your return, sir. Debrief in the morning?”

The lazy attitude made his shoulders settle; anyone else would call him a lax commander, but John liked it when his people felt comfortable enough to joke. “Oh-eight hundred,” he agreed. “Have a good watch, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir. Welcome home, sir.”

It was impossible not to smirk at that. “It really is.”

He compromised by walking slowly, allowing tension he hadn’t even noticed roll off as he breathed in the unique combination of Atlantis-on-the-Sea. Not even the replicator’s version had smelled quite like this: briny, yes, but clean and without the normal bitter tang of metal.

He didn’t allow himself to pause at Rodney’s door. He just pushed right in, newly aware that it hadn’t been locked to him in years. “Hey, McKay.”

Rodney tried his best not to look worried or curious, not looking up from the laptop he studied. His eyebrows twitched, though, furrowing the way they never did over work. “Colonel. Did you, ah. Have a good trip? Well, no, of course you didn’t, given the nature of the—that is, did everything go—um.”

He’d go on like that for hours, if John let him. “It was fine. It was nice.”

Finally, finally Rodney looked up at him. “The funeral?”

“No. Although,” he added, “the running around after replicators part wasn’t bad.”

“Yes, Ronon had mentioned. He said he’d never seen somebody so relieved to have to fight bad guys. I told him he needed to look in the mirror more, whenever something interrupts a staff meeting.” Which had probably earned Rodney the reddish bruise peeking under his shirt. “So, the funeral...”

“Was a funeral. They’re not really supposed to be fun.” John stripped off his jacket, tossing it over the chair he always used and settling on the bed like he belonged there. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d done this, before. It wasn’t something he counted, just like he never counted meetings or how many times he’d strapped a gun to his thigh. It was just something he _did_. Only now he was thinking about it. “I’m supposed to punch you, later.”

Rodney face skittered through increasing stages of panic before resolving to a scowl. “And what is my sister mad at me about _this_ time?”

It still made him angry, John realized, watching. The resigned slump of Rodney’s shoulders, despite the snap in his voice—that was _wrong_. Fortunately, John was pretty sure it’d go away soon. 

He shrugged, pushing back so his shoulders pressed up against Rodney’s hip and thigh, soaking in familiar warmth. “Well, she’s a little mad at you proposing marriage without telling her, even if it didn’t really work.”

It was late enough and Rodney tired enough that he didn’t splutter. He just sighed, turning off the laptop and setting it gently on the floor. “Figures you would tell her that, traitor. Well, what’s the rest of it? I don’t have to buy her another car, do I? I mean, I can afford it, but that really isn’t the—Colonel?”

It took some doing, getting both of them supine without John taking his hand off of Rodney’s mouth, but four years of knowing Rodney gave a man some unique skill-sets. “She doesn’t want a car, moron. She just wants to be informed the next time you make a. Uh.”

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t as ready to this as he thought he was. He focused on the look Jeanie had given him at the airport, three parts terrifying mother, and one part imploring sister. That _should’ve_ been enough motivation. It had to be.

Rodney, however, was giving him a look that could only be called _soft_. “John?”

“Yeah?” It’d sounded so easy when Jeanie laid it out for him. He’d wanted it, he still _did_ want it, with a passion that still surprised him. He’d thought that was more than enough to spur him on until he thought that maybe this time he’d say something. Do something. Maybe now.

Maybe not.

“She emailed me, you know,” Rodney said, his voice a study in a failed attempt at being casual. “Told me off about a half-dozen things that matter to neither of us. Then she thanked me. For you. And oh yes, told me that I should get off my ass and do something about you already, since it’s clear that you won’t make the first move.”

“Move?” He could recall, vaguely, when he’d had control of this conversation. It seemed like a long time ago, before he’d ever sat in a chair that tilted him up towards the stars. 

“Yes, move. That thing you make on people, to let them know that you like them. It invariably involves sex, which, okay, _obviously_ I want and I refuse to wait around forever to get, but...” Rodney took advantage of his stillness, curling around him like he was slotting into a puzzle, edges meshing with a snap John felt inside.

That was a good trade off, John decided. He’d never been all that good at conversing, anyway.

“Despite what Jeanie thinks about us—and yes, I’ll let you read her email later, your ears will hurt from all the blushing—it’s, um. Well.”

 _Irrelevant_ , John almost said, but it wasn’t. He wanted that, too, with a desperation that strained against his skin, a tidal wave bursting through the dam that held it in the back of John’s mind, ignored, for way too long. So no, not irrelevant. Maybe _not the point_. Or maybe something else John couldn’t come up with. The words weren’t important.

John could remember everything, now. Four years, forty years, memories crowding together—all of it was a haze in the back of his mind as he rolled onto his side, ignoring the clothes they both still wore, because all that mattered was the way Rodney’s chest settled so easily against his back, the hand over his belly that John covered with his own.

“It was good,” John heard himself say, “at your sister’s. That’s what was fine. Being... there.”

Rodney’s head settled on the pillow next to his, nosing into his hair. “Yeah?” he asked, muffled.

“Yeah.”


End file.
